Pathfinder a Zealous Heart

Elder Scrolls RPG

A blog for your campaign

While the wiki is great for organizing your campaign world, it’s not the best way to chronicle your adventures. For that purpose, you need a blog!

The Adventure Log will allow you to chronologically order the happenings of your campaign. It serves as the record of what has passed. After each gaming session, come to the Adventure Log and write up what happened. In time, it will grow into a great story!

Best of all, each Adventure Log post is also a wiki page! You can link back and forth with your wiki, characters, and so forth as you wish.

One final tip: Before you jump in and try to write up the entire history for your campaign, take a deep breath. Rather than spending days writing and getting exhausted, I would suggest writing a quick “Story So Far” with only a summary. Then, get back to gaming! Grow your Adventure Log over time, rather than all at once.

As the party trekked through the caves, Vendaal found that his worries about his home were fading. He was as insecure as before, but the adventure upon which he had embarked was a pleasant distraction from his anxieties. He wanted to get back to his homeland and save his people as soon as possible, but he knew that after so many years in jail his skills would be rusty. He needed, essentially, to warm up.

And that’s what this adventure was supposed to be; practice. But as they ventured forth, Vendaal could already feel the niggling sensation in the back of his mind that told him things were only going to get bigger and more dangerous from here on out, and that as a result he would probably become attached to his current hunting companions. Some of them, he reckoned, needed his presence, especially the old man and the blind one. Vendaal wasn’t sure what had compelled them to come along at all, but they had proven their worth in combat and was glad to travel with them.

He could already feel his skills returning to what they used to be. Now that he had gotten a feel for the bow he was carrying, he had gotten quicker at firing arrows from it. He hoped that he would prove more consistently useful in combat as a result.

Eric sat at the table in his room in the tavern, sipping a pint of ale. Something was up here, Eric was sure of it, and he didn’t like it. He was a soldier, and that life had always been straight forward, simply kill what the officer pointed at, nothing complicated, nothing tricky about it. Then why was he having the nightmares again, not about the future this time, but about the past, the war. The things he’d seen, the things he’d done, or rather should have done. This business with the kidnapping and the bandits they had killed had brought up old memories he’d rather have left buried. This was the reason he was here though, to prove the past wrong. If he did what he felt he needed to do, then his secret need never need be revealed, and he need not face the past.

The future however was proving to be much as he had seen it. The meeting of the party, the fact that they had joined together for a common cause, but this strange kidnapping, that had taken him completely by surprise. His visions were becoming less frequent and covered periods farther apart which was a nice respite. Hopefully, his sight would return, and, in time, maybe even this blasted magic would go, he’d never asked for it, but it did come in handy he supposed. Still, he wanted to find out why he had been struck with this curse and given these powers. All he’d wanted was a brief holiday to get his head back in order, and now he was here. Granted his arrest was nothing to do with his powers, just his morals.

In regards to the party, he didn’t really know what to think of most of them yet. He seemed to get along with Arn well enough, despite their rough start. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from the redguard, if Arn could hold off from killing things long enough to form a sentence that is. The chat they had had in the ruins was very pleasant indeed. Haraxe, not really sure what to make of that one. Eric had started off feeling rather amicable towards him, but recently it had turned to a distrust and general annoyance. For god sakes who simple wastes 500 gold upon decoration, it was ridiculous. Not only that, but his attitude to combat was just strange, I mean, who drops a book on their own foot mid-fight. Vandaal, not really sure what to make of that one, haven’t really had a chance to speak to him yet. He was very impressive in his ability to track down things, and indeed people. One might almost think that he had previous experience in that regard. Not only that, but he was damn impressive with a bow. Eric would have to have a chat with him at some point, find out what his story was. The Argonian, Skar’ va, that was his name. Eric didn’t really know enough about him to make a judgement either way. He seemed to know his way around traps though which was always useful in a pitch. Whatever the case, Eric would need to know more about him before he decided any opinion.

Eric finished his drink and glanced down at his hand resting on the table and watched as it flickered in and out of time. Hopefully he would sleep a little better tonight; hopefully his dreams wouldn’t trouble him.

Eric was a little concerned about returning to Skyrim. He wasn’t really ready for it just yet. Worse, what if he ran into someone he’d known from the war. Still, there was business which needed to be sorted out. This Talos thing was utter bullshit and someone needed to put a stop to it before more people were killed. They had failed to save that poor Nord from a fiery death in a pit of lava, but they would not fail to help stop these crazy bastards. there was something else thought. who were the fat argonian, the weird elf and the strange guy who was in charge of it all, and were they controlling people with some kind of magic or something. Eric didn’t like it, he wanted answers, and he was going to get them, one way or another.

Eric regretted what he had done to Arn. It had needed to be done and if the need arose he would do it again, but still he regretted it. Using his magic upon one of his friends in this manner was something that he had never thought he would do. In fact it was something which he had never wanted to do. he trusted Arn to do the right thing, he really did, but the problem was that he didn’t trust Molag Bal to let him do the right thing, and so Eric and frozen him, pulled that accursed mace from his hand and cast it down into the cavernous pits on the mountainside. He would do it again if necessary, but he would hate every moment of it.

On the way back to anvil he didn’t talk much. He was going over, in his own head, what had happened in that mountain stronghold. How so many people could be so easily turned to the whims of a Deadra and not even know it? That was what kept bringing his thoughts back there. Ever since he had held that foul mace, he could see more. Maybe even double of what he had been able to see before. What had happened? Had Molag Bal pushed back the influence of the 9 on him, loosened their grasp enough to expand his sight. But if that were the case, why were his powers still growing. Why was he having nightmares again?

He saw things now. Saw things no living man could, or should know. He saw the first men set foot upon the shores of Skyrim, and the last of them fleeing its destruction pass by in one moment. A thousand upon thousand years of history passed through his mind at night, but with no discernible order or pattern and with little to no context or insight proved. He was able to call up long lost pieces of knowledge but just as quickly, they would fold and fall away from his mind, but one thought, one piece of insight, more than any other, plagued his nights. He saw himself, plummeting towards the ground, from some vast cliff, or tower, or edifice of stone. Headlong he plunged, down towards the earth, the sound of his own heart beat drowning out the noise of the rushing wind. He held something tightly, clutched close to him as he fell, fell towards his death. This however was not the worst of it. The worst of it, the thing that awoke him every night on the long road back to Anvil, drenched in cold sweat, was he expression on his own face in this vision. Content. Eric woke in terror every night on the road to Anvil, knowing he would go to his end, willingly.

The walk out of the temple was tense. Not a word was exchanged between the party as they traversed the invisible bridge and walked past the fallen corpses of the guardian statues. The silence stood in stark contrast to the shouting match over the mace. One particular image from that conflict stood out in Vendaal’s mind – when he had trained his bow on Arn’s head, steadied his breathing and lined up the perfect shot. If he had let go, he could have killed Arn. Vendaal turned the image around in his head a hundred times, thinking about the ways he could have missed, trying to convince himself that he never had any intention of really killing him. But no, he wasn’t able to shake the image of that perfect shot from his head.

This was in itself another contrast. Before the conflict, he had felt truly bonded with the group, the same kind of bond shared between members of a Bosmer hunting party. They were true kin to Vendaal, or near enough as makes no difference. But in that moment of conflict, the tensed string, the quivering arrow, the slow breaths, Arn became another target in Vendaal’s mind for a second. Just a second, but that second echoed through his thoughts as the team walked out of the temple in stony cold silence.

Backstabing cretinous sons of Khajit! It was this kind of plots and schemes that Arn had left Hammerfell to avoid. Seems there are scum in every nation.

The kind of people that would be part of a Thieves’ Guild, those were the kind that he really loathed. The ones who lied and manipulated.
Many feared Arn, shunned him, or saw him as a monster, but at least he was honest. He didn’t lie, did not conceal his intentions, did not attemt to hide who he is.
Given the choice, most people worth a damned would prefer a sword to the chest over a knife to the back any day.

That was why Arn did not feel the slightest guilt about the bloodbath that was about to occur in the Thieves’ Guild.

There was no really a question as to what action needed to be taken. The thieves guild needed to be stopped and stopped now. It didn’t matter how many of them were killed, it didn’t matter how many of them managed to get away, so long as this leader and his main body of men ceased to be. The Thalmor were utterly evil and not to be trusted, and, granted, the empire had not exactly trusted them well recently, but they were still the lesser of two evils. Besides, there was no way they could side with the Thalmor in this regard. after all, Eric had been to war against their puppets, the storm cloaks, Venndaal’s people had been butchered by them, and skor’va, well Eric wasn’t sure about him, but he didn’t seem to like them either. So, this was now were they found themselves, about to begin a conflict which would decide the fate of a nation. This should be fun.

Eric sat in the King and queen tavern, nursing a warm stale pint of mead, thinking about the day’s events. Seeing the Jarl had shaken him greatly. The Jarl had been so callous about Eric’s involvement in the war, referring to his “injury” with such a tone of scorn. Bastard. Maybe there was no need to get Skyrim’s help. Maybe they could manage in the war without them; maybe there was no need to go back to Skyrim. Though that wasn’t an option really. He knew the others would want to head north, almost solely to learn of his past. Nosey twats.

A nord pulled out the chair next to Eric and sat down.
“Hey pal. It’s not often ya see another nord in here. What brings you to these parts?”

“Business” replied Eric glumly

“Oh, well, cheer up, Life’s not so bad. So, you been here long then?”

“About a year now”

“Leave because of the war?”

“Yea. I guess you could say that”

“Injured, fleeing or just looking for a change”

“You know, you ask a lot of questions for a stranger in a bar”

“Ah injury then” smirked the strange Nord. “So you fought in the war then. I won’t bother asking side. Doesn’t really matter to be honest”

Eric looked up. “How do you mean?”

“Well everybody was out to defend something in that war weren’t they. The imperial powers wanted to protect their economy and great historic empire, whilst the storm cloaks were protecting their gods and land from oppression. It’s like that old poem ya see. Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate: to every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods. Doesn’t matter which side you where on in that war. You were fighting to protect not to destroy.”

Eric down the last of his mead. “Yea, ya see, that’s just the problem” He turned and walked out of the bar.

Eric surveyed the carnage that was the battlefield. Blood ran through what remained of the streets, whilst the bodies clogged the gutters, and on all sides the dead and the dying lay pilled upon each other in a great cacophony of suffering and anguish which surely must have reached to the heavens and beyond. That was not the worst of it however. You could be trained to bear the sights, the sounds and even the feel of battle and death around you, but what could never be prepared for, was the smell. The scent of flesh, both rotting and fresh, mixed with faecal matter and fear drifted on the wind, attracting the cries of the Carron birds overhead, as if calling the souls of the dead on to the next world, where ever it may be.

Eric moved amongst those who still lived, healing what he could and ending what he could not. It was an arduous and difficult task, everywhere he turned he could hear more cries for help, but this grisly deed needed to be done. He would occasionally catch sight of Vendaal passing amongst the injured, but this was no place to discuss anything. Eric soon ran out of magic and resorted to what little he knew of surgery. He fell into a kind of macabre rhythm. Check the wounds, fix what can be fixed, will they live? If not, end their pain and move on. By the time he was done, the sun had begun to set and there was more gore on his sword from the after-math of the battle than from the actual battle itself.

The weight of his armour was really beginning to weigh upon Eric and his priests robes were now caked with blood and gore; he needed a rest, a wash and some new clothes. He headed over the church for just that. There were quite a few people there, those who had taken refuge, the injured and those simple here for a bit of an old pray. Moving through them, Eric found the font and washed the blood for his hands and face in it. Probably blasphemy, but after what he had been through, he didn’t care much. Pausing for the briefest moment to mutter a prayer to Akotosh (or possibly an insult. He still wasn’t sure what to think of the God who took his sight and gave him magic) he headed up the steeple for some peace and quiet. It was quite the climb, what with the tower being so tall and all, but he made it up there without too much trouble. He sat down upon the wooden floor, placed his back against one of the arches and look out over the town, or at least, what little of the town he could see, which, given the height of the tower, was very little indeed. The chill in the air sent a shiver through his spine as he discarded his bloody robes and removed his stolen helmet, the one he had claimed from the general. It was a very ostentatious helmet, what with the big frill, but remove that, and you might have something workable.

He had also come across the body, still in armour earlier in the day and made a note of where it was. Arn or Skor’va could probably make better use of the armour than he could. The same could be said for the two swords he had taken in fact, fine as they were, he more relied upon spells and manipulating time in a hostile situation as opposed to actually stabbing someone. In all actuality, it made more sense to give them the swords and keep the armour for him, as he was often in the thick of combat, but was quite easy to hit. He would go and pick it up later along with a new set of robes. For the time being though, he sat and looked out of the bell tower and murmured an old battle tune he’d learned in the army.

“We drink to our youth, to days come and gone. For the age of aggression is just about done”